


Fickle

by lilacSkye



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood and Gore, Bonding, Canonical Character Death, Family Loss, Father-Daughter Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-09-06 01:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20282812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilacSkye/pseuds/lilacSkye
Summary: Byleth has forgotten what it feels like to be powerless.Spoilers for chapter 9. Female Byleth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite experimental, so it's probably not that good. Byleth is, perhaps as to be expected, rather hard to get right. Still, I think Jeralt's death is a turning point for him/her, and I wanted to delve a liittle bit deeper on this moment and the immediate consequences. In game, aside a couple of tears, Byleth still doesn't really externate anything, and it feels a bit unnatural to me :/ especially since they're canonically mellowed down by the students at this point. Oh well, I'm rambling now, I'm sorry.
> 
> Next chapter will be in Dimitri's POV, and here's to hoping it will flow better lol

The Sword of the Creator slips through her slack fingers, its dead - _useless_, a vicious part of her Byleth never knew even existed until now supplies - weight far too heavy for her to bear. The legendary sword falls to the ground with a helpless clatter.

_No…_

The girl and the man who saved her from Byleth's attack have barely warped out of existence that Byleth feels her legs propel her forward on their own accord, stumbling and wobbling all the way to where Jeralt is laying, blood oozing off in sickening spurts from the gaping wound in his lower back.

It's fatal, there is no doubt about it. The blade struck true in the girl's expert - way too expert to be a mere student - hand, and cleanly cut through flesh and nerves, severing a major artery in the process. But even so, her hand trembles as she reaches out to the wound, pressing and staunching the blood as much as she possibly can. The blood drips and slips through the gaps between her fingers, slow and unstoppable. With every second, more blood flows away, more life drains from Jeralt's body, it grows cold…

_There's no time_, Jeralt had said, just a few hours ago, a lifetime ago. _There's never enough damn time._

She closes her eyes, takes in a shuddering breath. She needs just a second, just a moment would be enough, she would stay closer to Jeralt and fend off Monica's attack and-

But the blood keeps trickling away, drop after drop.

"It's useless," Sothis says in the back of Byleth's mind when Byleth ogles, puzzled, at her own, still very much bloodsoaked hands. She sounds downtrodden, a far cry from her usual lively self. "His fate is already sealed. There's nothing either of us can do to save him." She pauses, as though realizing the weight of what she's just said. "I'm sorry."

_What._

For months now, Byleth has wielded the power to turn back the hands of time, again and again until she reached a favorable outcome that pleased her. Time and time again she had simply denied the grievous wounds a few of her brashest students and colleagues sometimes got, payment for their cocky attitudes or reckless charging. Time and time again, she has saved people she has known for a short period of her life and whom she, for some reason, she felt she could not afford to lose. From Edelgard, against those bandits where it all began, to Claude and Dimitri and the rest of Blue Lions and the other houses; since day one she felt this ever so strange attachment, fondness even, blooming in her chest, and the feeling that she'd do anything in her power to keep them all safe and sound.

Only now, powerless and unable to do anything for the one man who gave and gave, who loved and loved and never so much asked for anything in return from her, Byleth finally realizes how arrogant she'd grown, how self assured that everything would be fine as long as she was present. That they had time, all the time in the world.

She forgot her place, and Jeralt would pay for her mistake.

Sothis is silent.

Jeralt groans when Byleth gingerly turns him around and places him to rest his upper back on her lap. Pointy rocks and pieces of cobblestone dig hard into her knees, tear into her skin, but she pays it no mind. All she can focus is Jeralt's labored breath, his vacant stare.

"Sorry," he chokes out, struggling for air. "It looks like… I'll have to leave you now."

He sounds tired. Exhausted.

For the first time in her life, something awful throbs sickeningly in her chest, pounding hard as though struggling to break out of her ribcage; her mouth dries, her vision grows misty and blurred, smudging Jeralt's unnaturally pale complexion to nothing more than a light smear. She angrily wipes her eyes off with the cuff of her sleeve, but it is no use. The unfamiliar moistness returns not even a moment later, clouding her field of view until several drops escape and fall upon Jeralt's visage.

Against all logic, he smiles. As though he's _proud_ of a daughter who even with godly powers just couldn't save her. The tears rain down harder, the throbbing in her chest grows more painful. Her right hand travels down his chest, frantically searching to locate the hard, soothing beat that used to lull her to sleep so many years ago.

It's faint, erratic, but it's there, thrumming against the palm of her hand. She clings to the feeling like a lifeline. One-two, one-two, the rhythm of being alive. It's foreign and yet so familiar to her ears, like the beat of swords clashing and bodies hitting the ground.

Jeralt chuckles, apparently amused, and places his hand above her own, squeezing lightly.

"Goodbye, kid."

His hold slackens. The beat falters. Silence falls. It's deafening and presses against her eardrums, and it's all she can hear.

Something scalding and bitter bubbles up into her mouth, burning the back of her throat. Her lips tremble as they fall open.

"_Father!!!_"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth breaks, and Dimitri thinks it's beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They say third's the charm and I sure hope as heck it really is, cause I'm sick and tired of rereading drafts and yelling 'DELETE EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM' at my screen. It's still choppy and way worse than I first envisioned it, but hey, gotta make do with what I've got.

Dimitri is busy helping the Knights gathering the fallen students bodies when something wet hits his cheek. For a moment, he thinks it might be blood, spurting out of the many gruesome injuries marring the corpse he's handling, making it a point of being as gentle as he feasibly can. Not an easy feat, when the girl's glassy, lifeless eyes bear into him with every little jostle, when her cyanotic, chapped lips part ever so slightly, whispering the same thing over and over again, and he can't give her a satisfying answer.

_Why me._

Another drop. This time it hits the tip of his nose, sliding down to reach his lips. It's cold to the touch. Rain.

Strange. The weather was excellent no more than five minutes ago, not a single cloud in sight in many miles.

A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold runs down his spine. Something heavy settles at the pit of his stomach, a feeling he's only too well acquainted with. The sickening tang of blood and sweat and death fills his mouth once more, the only flavor he's been able to taste on the tip of his tongue for the last four years.

Pit-pat, pit-pat. The rain sings mockingly as it grows in intensity. In the blink of an eye, the light drizzle turns into a full fledged downpour, blanketing the monastery's whole premise in a thick, blurry coat of steely greys and dull blues. He can barely see a palm from his nose. The water plasters his bangs against his eyes, blinding him, and his clothes, now thoroughly soaked and heavy, stick uncomfortably to his figure, limiting his movement. Icy water that would make Faerghus's rainstorm proud and which should never belong to the mild weather of Garren Mach now pool into his gauntlets. His fingers are numb in a matter of seconds.

"What the hell is going on?" He hears Felix yell somewhere nearby. Dimitri wonders if he too can feel how unnatural this sudden rain is. Ominous, even. Foreboding.

Lighting streaks and splits the sky, right above their heads, flashing the whole world ghostly white and infernal black. And then he hears it, loud and clear like a bell drowning the following thunderclap.

A scream, shrill and high pitched. A woman's scream.

Professor and Jeralt still aren't back from the Chapel.

His heart stops. His grip grows slack, and the dead girl's body slips through his fingers. She falls at his feet with a squelching noise and rolls to the side, splattering mud over his boots.

He leaps across it with no second thought. Weapons flashing unsheathed and ready to strike, Sylvain, Felix, Ingrid and Dedue follow suit.

Felix, as always, is faster than him, despite Dimitri's advantage in height and physical built. Where Dimitri keeps stumbling and slipping and hitting walls along the courtyard's grounds, Felix leads the party and moves with the grace and lethality of a cat, sword unleashed and ready to sink into the enemy's flesh before yet another friend may be stolen from them. Dimitri can only do his best to keep up, all the while ignoring the growing whispers of the dead in his ears, crying for vengeance and bloodshed.

If something happened to her, right under his watch… he wouldn't- he _couldn't_…

He grabs onto the ruined Chapel's cornerstone to stabilize himself as he rounds the corner. He feels his gauntleted fingers sink through the solid stone as though it's made of butter, leaving long, streaked dents in their wake.

Dimitri skids to a sudden halt, all air leaving him at once.

She's there.

Professor is there, sitting on her knees in the Chapel's courtyard. Her back is turned on him, but as far as he can tell she doesn't seem to be injured. Her back is slouched forward, made it heavy by the cloak sticking to her shoulders. Her whole frame quakes, strangled sobs wafting out of her with every gasping breath she takes, all the while she cradles Jeralt's head in her lap, lovingly brushing away the hair slicked to his temples.

He remembers clearly - perhaps embarrassingly too much - he once let slip he thought of her smile mesmerizing, in the wake of their stunning victory in the Battle of the Eagle and the Lion, and he meant it, every single word. The pride that came out of the mere victory could not possibly come close to the savage joy that bubbled in his chest at the sight of that smile, at the knowledge that he'd been the one that put it there. That he'd broken through her stoic countenance, that she was proud of him.

But now, as she breaks and cries along with the sky above, her screams and sobs in time with the fury of the elements raging about, Dimitri thinks she's absolutely breathtaking.

Perhaps, if he was a man of faith, he would have seen the soft, greenish glow shrouding her form like a protective halo, like a comforting embrace. Perhaps he would have noticed the emerald sheen of her wet hair. Perhaps, if he believed, he would have chanced upon a goddess.

Instead, he sees Byleth for the first time. A young woman whose only family has been brutally taken away.

Tragically, beautifully _human_.

He hears Felix curse loudly and rush forward in the ruined Chapel, Silvain and Ingrid hot on his trails. Dedue stays behind, taking a defensive stance and ready to leap at whatever may put Dimitri or Byleth in danger. A soft patter of feet coming from behind him, followed by shocked gasps and pained mutters, tell him Mercedes, Annette and Ashe have caught up as well.

"Goddess," Mercedes breaths, her hands folding in front of her chest into the customary praying pose. "Please take his soul under your blessed wings."

Annette and Ashe hum in agreement, the former sniffling slightly. Dimitri has no prayer to give. He already knows no amount of polite words will ever be enough to give the dead true, proper rest.

His father has whispered as much in his ear.

Slowly, as though coming out of a long, deep slumber, he forces his body to move. He's soaked to the bone, and the uncharacteristic chill has settled into his spine, pooling in his chest. He takes a wobbly step, then another, then another again.

"Professor."

She does not stir. Gingerly, he falls to a knee, half a step behind her, and places a hand on her shoulder. She's trembling.

"Professor, we should leave."

She lets out a choked sob and finally turns to look at him, eyes red rimmed and wild, drowning in despair so thick he's not sure she's even truly seeing him. Her hands fist tightly in Jeralt's vest, so hard her nails puncture holes through the thin fabric and sink into the meat of her own palms, punching crimson crescents on her skin.

Wordlessly, he reaches down to take her hands within his own. Her fingers are so tiny, so _frail_ compared to his much larger ones, that he's terrified he might snap them on accident as he gracelessly works and coaxes every knuckle loose, one by one, until she relents and lets her hands fall limply into his own. Even through his gauntlets, even drenched in rainwater, warmth seeps into his skin at the touch. He feels like he's holding a flame in his hands.

Dedue, ever the perceptive one, steps forward and gently tugs Jeralt's body off Byleth's lap. She lets him, though her watchful gaze never leaves Jeralt's sleeping face as Dedue carefully hoists him up over his shoulder, full of longing and regret. Dimitri is too familiar with that kind of sorrow; after all, he happens to see it every time he steps in front of a mirror.

Dedue meets his eyes. He nods in response to the silent question.

Byleth watches Dedue leave with his cumbersome burden, aided at once by Annette and Ashe as they lower Jeralt down and carry him off by his shoulders and legs. Thankfully, Mercedes has the care to take off her shawl and drape it over his face and torso. A meager show of respect, far less than Jeralt deserves, but nonetheless a tribute for the peace and quiet of the dead.

Now, he only needs to get Byleth to move. They've been out in this accursed place, in the downpour, for far too long.

"Professor," he tries to call her again, "let us return to the monastery. You need rest."

He offers his arm to her, but she does not take it. She merely stares in front of her vacantly, swaying lightly on the spot. Porcelain skin glistening with rain and hair darker than Faerghus's winter nights, Dimitri is made all too aware of her beauty, ethereal and otherworldly. Something twists painfully in his chest, and he has to fight off the urge to reach out and cup her cheek, to pull away at the hair slicked to her forehead and temple and trace the fine curve of her jaw, soft and round…

"Professor!!"

Her whole body shudders, shoulders slouching and eyes rolling back as her lids fall close, and Dimitri has only his quick reflexes he trained up with Felix to thank when he lunges forward and catches her before she can hit the ground. Her head falls limply against his chest, her ear resting over his now thundering heart. Her soft, shaking breaths fill his ears.

Fainted. Probably due to the shock and the sudden cold.

He really should get her somewhere warm and, more importantly, dry.

Cautious as to not to jostle her too much, he shifts her weight so to support her middle back in the crook of his left arm, and slowly snakes his right beneath the back of her knees, trying to ignore the uncomfortable heat washing over his entire body as his palm brushes against her thigh; soft as it may look, he can feel the toned muscle beneath the skin, strong and lean and agile. His mouth grows dry, and Byleth chooses right that moment to let out a breathy groan. He bites the inside of his cheek hard, until he feels the skin break and blood pour out. This is _not_ the time for fantasies.

He raises to his feet, cradling her against him. She's so tiny in his arms that he can efficiently shield her from the downpour just by bending slightly over her.

One wrong move and he could snap her cleanly in half. One single mistake...

Her hand rises to fist into the front of his uniform, the way it did with Jeralt's vest. He looks down only to see her lips pulled into a pained grimace, cheeks flushed and brows pinched together in anguish.

"Sorry…" she breathes into his chest. "Father… I'm sorry… _Papa_..."

Frail. She's so frail.

Before he can think twice, he lifts her further up and presses his lips against her forehead. Her skin feel on fire against his much cooler one. She's obviously running a fever.

As he gives the order to retreat and leads the way back to the monastery, only one thought fills his mind. Only one vow that he can make to the innocent, broken woman in his arms.

They will _pay_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's got it bad for Byleth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth and Dimitri discuss what being a human means. Sothis helps. Or at least she tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so... This is bad. Like, real bad. This style just doesn't work for me (I love reading it, but when it comes down to writing in it, ugh it's frustrating) and on top of that there is _dialogue_, my sworn archnemesis. So yeah, not that great.
> 
> Also OOC as heck because of course it had to be. Especially Sothis. Sorry Sothis, I did you dirty but I just loved the idea of motherly Sothis consoling Byleth TwT

It _hurts_.

As a mercenary, Byleth is no stranger to pain, by any means. She can't begin to count the times she spilled blood or broke a bone, pulled a muscle or nursed a bruise. Pain was her living, before the monastery. More often than not shielding others from injury, even at the cost of herself, was what allowed them to keep the boat afloat and live to see another day.

And even in their small group of sellswords, Byleth Eisner had made a name for herself for having an incredibly high pain threshold. Injuries and wounds, unless potentially deadly, meant little to her. Aside from the initial sting, it came easy for her to simply cast the thought aside and forget all about it until Jeralt found her dripping blood and urgently called for the healer to fix her up. She has never understood why he would always make such a fuss and waste time, instead of going straight to their employer to claim their prize.

For all his grizzled appearance and collected attitude, Jeralt got unnerved by the smallest things. For the longest time, she could not fathom the reason.

But now… now it's different. Everything hurts, hurts so much as what it feels like a thousand blades drag against her skin and carve her flesh, her bones shatter and splinter and twist, and something grows and grows and _grows_ in her chest, suffocating her from within, threatening to crack her ribs open and burst out of her in its relentless quest for freedom.

A voice fills the dark void surrounding Sothis's empty throne as Byleth writhes and rolls and contorts in agony. It takes her a while to realize it's coming out of her own gaping mouth.

She - Byleth, the renowned and feared Ashen Demon - is screaming in pain.

A shuddering sob cuts her shrieking to a halt, causing the- the _thing_ throbbing within her chest to lurch and press even more against her lungs, making it difficult to even breathe.

"Don't."

Something moves out of the darkness, followed by the rustle of thick fabrics and the jingling of jewels. A familiar scent, like peppermint and pine, washes over Byleth as Sothis approaches with light, graceful steps. Her mouth is tight at the corners, but the redness of her eyes speak of sorrow and her frown teeters on sympathy as she looms over Byleth.

Mouth gaping, unable to speak, Byleth gazes up at the young girl, pleading silently for this torture to _end, please, I beg of you_.

Sothis falls to her knees, her wild mane of hair spilling over the dark ground behind her like verdant flames.

"Don't hold it in," she commands, though her tone is soft, sweet even, something Byleth is not accustomed to, and yet she can't help but find familiar. Sothis reaches down to gently cradle her tear-stricken face and Byleth instinctively leans into the touch, eyes fluttering close when Sothis's dainty fingers thread themselves in her hair, or when they carefully lift her head to rest on Sothis's lap. "Let it all out. Nobody else will hear you, nobody will judge you. We have all the time in the world."

A strangled sob wrecks through Byleth like a tidal wave, the burning in her chest having reached an unbearable intensity.

She clutches desperately at her vest, claws savagely at the exposed skin uncaring of the angry red marks her nails dig into her own flesh, desperate to find the source of this pain and carve it out, at last, but Sothis stops her, placing a soothing hand over her own.

Their eyes meet, lavender against mint.

"What _is_ this, Sothis?" Byleth croaks, pressing Sothis's palm against her chest so that she too may feel the sickening pounding of the tumor growing within. "Why does it hurt so?"

Sadness washes over the girl’s youthful features. She moves the hand Byleth is not clutching like a lifeline and gently brushes away the dampened bangs out of Byleth's sweat-slicked forehead. Again, that sense of familiar longing fills her, and the feverish state her body verses in feels a little more bearable with every sweet caress.

"I don't know, child," Sothis soberly admits. She looks genuinely apologetic. "Or rather, I do not remember. I don't recall having any reason to grieve."

Another pang, like the lash of a whip against her ribs, knocks all the air out of Byleth's lungs. She whimpers in pain, and wishes the hand rubbing soothing circles over her temple was larger, calloused by many decades of wielding swords and fishing by the side of a lake. The hands of a Blade Breaker.

Has she ever spent time with Jeralt like this? She can't recall. Back then, it just felt like a pointless waste of time, time that they never could afford when their survival was at stake and it was a struggle to make ends meet at every changing Moon. Now, she realizes the real waste of time was ever thinking that cuddling with her father was a waste of time.

"It burns," she groans in Sothis's lap. "Make it stop."

Sothis heaves a sigh. "I cannot."

"_Why_."

A new sensation worms its way up her chest, mixes with the scorching heat, causing it to bubble with renewed vigor. A feeling she only experienced once, as she witnessed the accursed blade sink into Jeralt’s flesh. She feels - she _feels_, and that would be enough to render her speechless in surprise on its own accord, had it happened not a couple of months ago, before life suddenly got so complicated and things she doesn’t know the name of started to grow within her - the burning, bitter sting of bile fill her mouth, and it’s potent enough to make her want to retch.

Anger. Betrayal. Outrage. Concepts she heard of, but that were never cause of concern for the Ashen Demon.

But what about Byleth?

It seems like the dagger has cut and carved far deeper than mere muscle and sinew, and she is just now realizing how woefully unprepared she is as to how to dress this particular wound.

Annoyance flickers through Sothis’s eyes, but it fades as quick as it comes, like the teasing, silvery flash of fish as it darts mere inches from the surface of the sea, only to disappear into the unfathomable depths a second later, forever out of reach. Her hands never stop stroking Byleth’s head, however, and for that Byleth is grateful.

“I do not know, exactly. This pain you’re feeling… it goes beyond my expertise. I don’t know how to help you, no matter how much I wish to.”

Her ministrations halt. A frown pulls down the corner of her mouth. For possessing such a young appearance, childish even, the weight settling behind her eyelids as they drift close make her appear as old as time itself.

“Byleth, sometimes I do wonder… what are you?”

Byleth has no answer if not the cry that tears through her mouth.

* * *

“Physically, she’s fine.” Mercedes says for the umpteenth time, readjusting and smoothing the nearly nonexistent wrinkles in the covers shielding Professor Byleth’s slumbering form. She regards her patient with a motherly, sad smile. “The fever has long subsided. All we can do now is to wait until the shock wears off. Give her time.”

Dimitri nods absently. Mercedes’s comforting words, once again, wash over him like the rain that has been relentlessly pelting the monastery’s ancient walls and elaborate stained-glass windows for days. Even now, the water screams its undying rage against the panes, the wind howls and roars and bends sturdy trees like they were twigs in its fury. Lightning flashes occasionally, setting the world ablaze for a fleeting moment, only to cast it back into a pit of darkness a heartbeat later. Thunder rolls in its wake, shaking the monastery down to its foundations, causing Dimitri’s bones to rattle under its sheer might.

And yet, it’s not loud enough to drown _them_ off. It’s never enough. On the contrary, with every rumble, with every boom ricocheting between the heaven and earth, they grow stronger, they melt with the thunder itself, throwing accusations at him like divine javelins raining from above-

“Dimitri?”

He blinks; he didn’t realize he had been spacing out. Again.

“Yes?”

The concern in Mercedes’s kind, lilac eyes in unmistakeable.

“There is nothing else we can do for her for now. You should try and get some rest.”

He’s keenly aware of the heavy shadows rimming his eyes, physical reminder of how sleep seems to actively reject him just as it appears to favor Byleth. They’ve already garnered him the worry and pity of the rest of class. Felix even went as far as to let him know even the foulest and most savage boars need their dutiful sleep time to keep up with their beastly business. Coming from Felix, that’s nothing short of a declaration of undying love.

But it’s useless, for try as he might, the voices never let up and his feet carry him through the empty monastery halls until they find Professor’s door. The one place the shadows flickering at the peripheral of his vision seem to steer far away from.

He shakes his head, fists clenching at his side. His knuckles pop loudly, eliciting a startled flinch out of Mercedes; his tendons are taut, on the verge of snapping. He relishes in the pain, it helps keeping him grounded.

“I’m grateful for your concern, but I’m fine, Mercedes. Quite the contrary, you need rest far more than I do,” he tries to offer her a reassuring smile, but it tastes foul even to his numb tongue. “I will keep watch, should Professor arouse and need assistance.”

“Again? This is the fifth night-”

“_Please_, Mercedes.”

Mercedes looks doubtful, conflicted, as her eyebrows pinch up and creases wrinkle her forehead. Dimitri loathes to be the cause for her distress.

“Alright,” she eventually relents with a sigh that betrays how truly exhausted she is. “Just… please, don’t overdo it. It will do no good to anyone.”

“Of course.” the lie slips easily past his lips. “Have a restful sleep, Mercedes. You deserve it.”

Mercedes nods half-heartedly, then spins on her heels and makes her way towards the door. She pulls it open, quietly as to not startle awake the other inhabitants of this part of the monastery, but she has scarcely taken a step across the threshold that she turns around once again. The soft glow of the torches lit along the empty hallway behind her back enshroud her figure in a soft, golden halo.

“Dimitri?”

“Yes?”

The pause - the _pity_ \- is unbearable.

“It was not your fault. Don’t blame yourself for something that was out of your control.”

His throat constricts, a noose that has been four years in the making, slithering inch by inch with every passing day, tightens against his neck. He looks away, focusing instead on the ravaging tempest out of the window. A fitting ambience.

"Good night, Mercedes."

"Good night, Dimitri."

The door closes with a soft click. He waits, with bated breath, until he hears the soft ticking of Mercedes's heels fade away behind a corner at the opposite end of the hallway. At last, some peace and quiet. He closes his eyes and pulls Byleth's desk chair, carrying to the bedside and all but sinking into the stiff wood, ignoring the pained screams of his lower back as he finds himself in a chair far too ill-equipped to comfortably accommodate his physique. Byleth just sleeps on, blissfully ignorant of his presence, of all, and he clings desperately to the regular rise and fall of her shoulders under the bundle of covers and furs Mercedes and Flayn have wrapped her tiny form within, all the way up to her nose. It's easy to forget she's his professor when she doesn't hold a sword with the confidence and experience of a much older soldier.

_It's your fault_, Glenn's voice supplies, dripping with loath and disdain. _Had you not hesitated, Jeralt would be alive, and she wouldn't have to suffer._

Dimitri clenches his jaw, sinks his face into the palms of his hands. The darkness is a balm for his eyesight, but it does nothing to dispel the ghostly figures flitting about. On the contrary, his father's visage appears more clearly than it has ever done. A large gash runs along his neck, where Dimitri remembers the axe cleaving it from his body. Streaks of blood drip on the front of his vest and armor.

_"Why are you lingering, boy?_, Father inquires, _"Do you not care about us any longer? Are you perhaps abandoning us to our despair and regrets? Do you not have the strength to do what must be done?"_

No. No. Dimitri begs for more time, vows on everything he owns, with everything he is, that he will save them, he will carry the burden they left behind and see to it that their murderers are finally brought to the justice they so deserve.

But Lambert merely shakes his head.

_"What a disappointment."_

Something touches him at the elbow, tugs at the fabric of his uniform. He startles and jolts right back up, barely managing to rein in a scream before it fully escapes from his lips.

Byleth is awake, propped up on her elbow and reaching out to him with her free hand, large, doe-like eyes wide and sparkling in the dim light filtering through. He would think her yet another ghost, if not for the wonderfully solid touch on his arm.

"Professor!" Dimitri finally snaps back to his senses. He slides off the chair and falls to his knees. "You're awake!"

Byleth blinks, slowly, dazed. Her hand retreats to her chest. She grimaces and his heart falters. He springs up to his feet.

"Are you alright? I shall go call for Mercedes immediately-"

"Stay."

It's not an order, nor a polite request. It's a plea.

He can't find it within himself to disobey. He sits back.

"How…" Byleth begins, voice hoarse and weak and on the verge of shattering. "How long was I out?"

_How long has Jeralt been dead?_ is what she really means. He slumps against the back of the chair, his head rolling upwards to stare at the ceiling. For the many nights he spent basking in her sleeping presence, now he can hardly bring himself to keep eye contact with her.

"Five days. Flayn and Mercedes have been caring for you non-stop. You came down with a severe fever."

"I see. And what about my fath- Jeralt-"

"An official funeral was held three days ago." He replies as composedly as he can. "Lady Rhea herself personally performed the ceremony. Needless to say, as your representative, I took the liberty to lay flowers on his grave in your stead."

Byleth's hand spasms, clenches at her chest so viciously the flimsy fabric of her gown crumples and threatens to tear apart. The skin on her collarbone reveals angry, red lines where her nails have dug without mercy.

"Thank you," she says, with the ghost of a smile that dies far before it may reach her eyes. "For… being there, when I could not. I appreciate it."

He nods solemnly. "But of course. I would do anything to alleviate the burden on your shoulders, Professor."

She hums, expression distant, eyes glazed. On the outside, she looks the very epitome of peace and calm, but her shoulders are stiff, and her breath is quick and ragged. Dimitri shifts awkwardly on his seat.

"It is peculiar, isn't it?" She eventually speaks, more to herself than him. "I was known as the Ashen Demon. I cut down lives, simply because someone ordered me to under the promise of payment. I lost companions along the way, and hardly batted an eye. And look at me now…" She trails off, head hanging low so that her long bangs fall down, shielding her face from his eyes. Her lips tremble at the corners. A few teardrops cascade down, staining the soft furs pooled at her waist. "I can't even stop crying in front of my student. It's… it's…"

"It is not pathetic, if that's what you're thinking."

The words are out before he can think twice, and perhaps he's been a foolish, idealistic idiot, but when Byleth's head snaps upwards, disbelief and innocent hope warring in her eyes, he steels himself and refuses to take them back. He rises to his feet and wanders about the room, coming to a halt in front of the window.

"There is nothing to be ashamed in the way you're feeling. I do believe there is strength into taking the time to grieve and mourn the loss of a loved one, to make sure their spirit lays at rest. That they are well loved and cherished, and never to be forgotten."

The wind howls fiercely outside. The rain laughs mockingly as it slams against the window like fists demanding entrance. In the back of his mind, Glenn scoffs.

"These feelings you're going through, of love and loss… aren't those the values that set us apart from animals and beasts? Could we even call ourselves humans, if we failed to muster up the heart to cry the death of our beloved? Moving forward with little care for who or what we lose in our path… that's the mindset of a vile monster."

_"Hypocrite."_ Glenn sneers at him.

Dimitri heaves in a long, shuddering breath. His heart is pounding with such force he's genuinely surprised Byleth is unable to hear it. He sneaks a peek at her reflection in the glass. She appears to be staring at her open palms, deep in thought. Unreadable and unreachable, once again.

He whirls around and bows lightly.

"Ah, forgive me, Professor, I spoke out of turn. I will let you rest now."

She doesn't appear to even hear him in the first place. "The 'heart'." She mumbles to herself.

Suddenly, she whips her head up and locks eyes with him, spearing him from side to side better than any lance could ever do. He actually 

"What if I don't have a heart? What would that make me?"

Her words are forceful, a tinge of desperation crackling like thunder at the edge of the words. She's unraveling at the seams, struggling with all her might just to keep herself together.

A part of him screams to go away, to move before he does something he might regret later on. It's the sensible course of action. Here he is, keeping her up at night and chatting, more or less amiably, about vague concepts that have no real weight in the reality they live in. It's scandalous at best, hypocritical at worst.

But that… that would make too much sense, now, would it? Especially when their roles are switched and she's looking at him as though her life depends on whatever he might say; a wrong word might shatter her for good.

If he's not careful, he might break her. The prospect is nothing short is terrifying.

But, like a moth is drawn to a flame, his body moves when his brain draws a blank, and in a heartbeat he's kneeling at her bedside and his right hand has enveloped both her own. They're so warm.

"My stepmother used to say the heart of a person resides in their hands, not their chest," he says, trying to ignore how his own heart aches at the memory of a past life that is blurring at the corners. "I can now see that is true."

She smiles, and only now realizes how close they truly are. The pale violet of her eyes as they meet his own is immense, an ocean he would be all too happy to drown into.

But he can't. He doesn't have the right to. The voices are all too happy to remind him of that. He has no right to make promises he knows he will break. His life doesn't belong to him, and he's not allowed to pledge it to the favor of someone else.

He hastily scrambles to his feet once again, the cold seeping into his bones the moment the skin to skin contact is lost.

"Forgive me, Professor. That was, perhaps, a little too inappropriate."

She rubs her hands together. Was his touch really this cold?

"It's fine, I liked it. Thank you. For… everything."

He nods, stiff. A suspicious warmth flares across his collar and ears. "Very well then, I shall take my leave. Should I perhaps brew you a cup of tea?"

She shakes her head. "No, don't worry about it. I will take care of it myself. I'm way better now."

Her eyes plead him to stay. Every fiber of him wants to answer that call in kind. Even children know nightly monsters are not half as scary when in company.

_"And you think you can protect her? Don't make me laugh."_ Glenn mocks him. He has a point.

It takes Dimitri's all too long and lanky legs a mere few steps to reach the door. He grabs the handle, the sturdy metal bending like butter in his grasp. And still, he hesitates. It seems like it's all he's good to do.

But if it's true he can't offer his life to serve her, at least he can offer this freakishly, inhuman strength to her cause. If he truly can't be her knight, he'll be her weapon.

"Professor." He calls, just a breath away from the threshold.

"Yes?"

The innocence in her exhausted face disarms him. For a moment, words fail.

"Jeralt's demise is a sin that will not go unpunished. Should you pursue justice, know that I will follow and aid you every step of the way until the end, wherever that end may be."

She smiles at him, a sad smile that should never cloud her face.

"Thank you, Dimitri. You're a kind man."

He nearly scoffs at that. Kind is the last word he's use to describe himself.

"Goodnight, Professor. I'll send Mercedes to check on you first thing in the morning."

He ducks his head and darts out of the room, plunging into the soft glow of the eerily empty hallway.

As he speeds past, making a beeline for his quarters, he pretends he doesn't see the lone silver and crimson shadow leaning against the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might or might not do a fourth part post-timeskip in the future, but who know when that will be, so for now it's complete.
> 
> Hope you liked it, thanks for reading!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!


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